


Prior Commitment

by theapolis



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Emily POV, F/F, Miranda lustfully abusing her position, Office Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theapolis/pseuds/theapolis
Summary: Emily and Miranda have a weekly arrangement. At least, until Andy Sachs arrives.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MykaWells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykaWells/gifts).



> I hope you like it, MykaWells! :)

The thing is, Emily’s... appreciation of women had always existed, even before Miranda. Fuck, it was part of the reason why she was in fashion. The female form was a thing of beauty, everyone could recognize that.

But that appreciation usually stopped just shy of being sexual. There had been a couple of girls who had gotten under her skin in college, but other than that, it was all boys for her.

Until Miranda.

Emily would do and did do anything for Miranda. How could she _not_ ? The woman was a _genius_. She was a cultural force. She made fashion into what it was, globally.

So when Emily glanced up from her armful of papers and fabric swaths and saw in the reflection on the glass to her office Miranda’s eyes lingering on her ass, she felt a bolt of lust.

She took to bending over more, tugging her top down just enough to showcase the slopes of her breasts, but not low or saggy enough to get critiqued for sloppiness. She jutted out to rest her hip against the side of her desk, drew the toes of one foot up and down her leg while placing calls.

She waited. She hoped.

“The thing is, the thing _is_ ,” Emily slurred drunkenly over the phone to one of the few friends from college she still kept in touch with, though her time for socializing was dramatically reduced thanks to the long, grueling hours she worked. She waved her hand holding her vodka tonic for pointed effect and splashed a little onto her pajama pants, legs curled under her on her couch. Oops. “Oh, fuck.” Oh well. At least the liquid was clear. “The thing IS. She’s like… a goddess. And who wouldn’t want to fuck a goddess?”

Nina hummed a little nonsensically, also drunk.

“Yeah,” said Emily, closing her eyes and tilting her head to finish the last of her drink. Miranda had taken to _looking_ at her. She was sure of it.

Five days later, late, late into the evening on Wednesday, Miranda gestured at Emily without looking up from whatever she was reading on her desk.

Heart pounding with the feeling of something about to happen, Emily fumbled her aching feet back into her heels and got up, not very gracefully, and very grateful Miranda was still not watching as she hobbled to her office door.

Emily got her feet fully under her by the time she entered the darkened room and clicked her way to the front of Miranda’s desk, heart throbbing in her throat.

Miranda looked up with her eyes, cool and assessing as always.

“Yes, Miranda?” Emily croaked.

Miranda’s gaze traveled down her face, and very deliberately down her throat and stopped at her breasts, which were moving rapidly with each fast breath.

“Do I have to worry about you?” she said to Emily’s chest.

“No, never, Miranda, you know that,” said Emily. It was a safe response, even if Miranda didn’t mean what Emily thought - what she hoped -

Miranda’s eyes flicked back up to Emily’s and held them for a long moment. Then she spun herself to the side and spread her legs wide.

God. If Emily was still wrong about this... _she was about to get fired_. The hysterical thought came to her as if from a great distance as she rounded Miranda’s desk.

But Miranda wouldn’t specifically tell Emily what she wanted. She always demanded that her desires were anticipated and catered to.

Emily sank to her knees in front of Miranda, whose sharp black skirt strained across her thighs. Between her elegant knees Emily could just see up into the shadowed interior and just thinking about what was hidden there made her mouth water.

Hesitantly, she put her hands on the edge of Miranda’s skirt. Should she look at Miranda’s face, check to see if this is what she wanted? Would Miranda want to meet her eyes, or just want her to get on with it?

“Well, get on with it,” snapped Miranda, in the way she did when Emily lingered too long before explaining a memo or recounting a message from a designer.

Phew. Emily might not be fired, after all.

Buoyed by that thought, and reassured that she was doing what Miranda wanted, Emily pushed up Miranda’s skirt, Miranda lifting herself just enough for the fabric to move, still taut around her lovely legs.

Miranda wore lacy blue panties, a lighter color than Emily would have predicted. A damp spot darkened the front, enticing and thrilling.

Breath shaking in her lungs, Emily hooked her finger around the elastic by that wet spot, pulled it to the side, and leaned forward in the same motion to replace the lacy, sticky fabric with her tongue.

Miranda waxed, and her skin was soft and velvety against Emily’s face as she began to lick, diving through the thick fluids and finding her clit. It felt small and vulnerable as Emily laved over it, Miranda’s breath hitching, completely contrary to the woman herself.

After several minutes of going down on her, Emily realized Miranda was going to make her work for Miranda’s orgasm, and began putting her neck into it, fucking her with everything she had. She slipped two fingers inside - holy shit, she was _inside_ Miranda Priestley! - and Miranda’s hips finally began to move, riding her face until she came soundlessly, thighs trembling on either side of Emily’s head.

“That’s all,” said Miranda, only the slightest breathlessness in her dismissive tone.

Emily just made it to the bathroom before shoving her hand into her throbbing cunt and rubbing herself off, staring at her own cum-slicked face in the mirror.

It was always on Wednesdays. For as unpredictable as Miranda could be about other things, she was like clockwork here; Wednesday evenings, alone in the office, was her weekly fuck. That was all.

After a couple of weeks, Emily suddenly wondered with a sense of horror if she wasn't the only one in a rotation. That she wasn’t special to Miranda like she’d been fantasizing. So she stayed late, she found excuses to come back to the office at all hours of the evening all through the week as Wednesday ticked closer, but no. It was just her.

Her smug superiority lasted beautifully up until the arrival of Andy fucking Sachs.

 

Emily didn’t see Andy as a threat at first. She entered the office every morning sure that would be the day the little pipsqueak handed in her resignation letter, or just wouldn’t show up at all.

But the opposite happened. Through sheer force of will, it seemed, Andy transformed herself from an ugly, gross duckling into a fucking _swan_.

If the situation had been different; if they hadn’t been in the catty, competitive environment they were in, Emily would have almost respected her. But she thought she saw Miranda’s eyes start to linger more and more on Andy as she moved around in her new designer clothes and sleek haircut, her body curvaceous and lush.

So she hated the bitch.

A month after Andy’s arrival, Emily knocked on Miranda’s glass door and entered, heart pounding with giddy anticipation and panties damp and chaffing. She’d started soaking them in the afternoons like clockwork now, and sometimes not even on Wednesdays; the memories and excitement beginning to carry on over through the week.

She started for Miranda’s desk, making a loop toward the side, when Miranda looked up from what she’d been reading on her computer, glasses elegantly pincered in her fingers, expression annoyed.

“What is it, Emily?” she asked on a beleaguered sigh.

Confused, Emily stopped dead in her tracks.

“I thought,” she started, heart beginning to pound with adrenaline from fear and embarrassment. Oh God, was it not Wednesday?

“I’m very busy,” said Miranda, cool gaze dropping back down. “Shoo.”

“Sorry, Miranda, it won’t happen again,” Emily stammered, backing up toward the door. She bumped into it clumsily, fumbled it open, and made a quick retreat to her chair, where she sat, quivering.

After a few minutes of a mild panic attack, she returned to herself enough to snatch over her date book, then confirm with her computer. No, it was Wednesday. She checked the time: 8:44pm, which meant she would have walked in at 8:38pm, as she had thought she had, the same same as every other week.

Emily had a moment of sudden existential doubt: Had she… had she _imagined_ the whole thing? Had it all been some sort of bizarre, extended fever sex-dream?

She eventually gathered her stuff and left for her cramped, miserable apartment, seriously doubting her own sanity.

“Ugh!” said Andy the next day shortly after lunch, staring at her computer screen with a combination disappointment and resignation. “I guess it doesn’t matter that I stayed here until eleven on Tuesday. Miranda wants me to stay late tonight as well.”

Emily, who had been about to dial someone from Versace’s office, froze, stomach shriveling and skin going cold. “What?”

“Yeah, and no explanation why,” bitched Andy, jabbing at her keyboard. “Great. I’d been dreaming about a bubble bath all day.”

Emily stared at her own screen until it started to jump before her unfocused eyes. It could mean nothing. It could be… just Miranda, making some of her outrageous demands. Outrageous, _nonsexual_ demands.

She lingered until she couldn’t think of any plausible excuse why she should still be there, and it could have been her imagination, but she fancied she felt Miranda’s heavy, displeased gaze on her with each ticking minute, which finally saw her out the door.

Emily slept in starts and stops, tossing and turning all night.

It wasn’t like she was… in _love_ with Miranda or anything, she thought as she flung her misshapen pillow down and tried to make a suitable lump out of the corner of her bedsheets. It was just….

She wanted to be the best, at _everything_. She didn’t want to be replaced.

She seethed at the ceiling. There was no reason why some uncultured, backwater swine who came in knowing jack shit about fashion should get more attention than her. Should get _Miranda’s_ attention instead of her.

Tears collected in her eyes and ran down her temples toward her hairline. It was so fucking unfair.

The next morning, something was off about Andy. Emily spotted it immediately. She was sitting different, and straighter, jumping at the slightest sound and looking around as if paranoid.

Were her lips plumper? It was hard to tell. They already were full and lush by nature, and the bright red lipstick on them could be covering something or just be... lipstick. As normal.

But by mid-morning, Emily was convinced. As soon as Miranda breezed in, tossing her stuff on Andy’s desk, Andy was different. Her body language, her expressions…. She angled toward Miranda like a fucking flower soaking up the sun. She moved sensually instead of pragmatically, she gazed at Miranda in her glass palace as if awed.

They’d fucked. Last night, they’d fucked. Miranda had tossed Emily aside and taken on this… this fat, know-nothing, usurping _bitch_.

In the breakroom Emily ripped open a string cheese packet with her teeth and ate it furiously, heart pounding and trembling.

Miranda herself acted as normal, but that was part of the key to her success. Nothing outwardly phased her. Her world could be ending or beginning and no one else would ever know.

Fuck coming up with a plausible reason why she should be there, as soon as Emily saw Andy remaining fast at her desk at the end of the day, breasts moving rapidly up and down in the scoop of her green jersey dress, Emily hid in a vacant office until it was quarter to nine.

Holding her Louboutin heels in her hand, she moved silently through the dark floor, a few solo lights and glowing computer screens the only illumination, until she was near a corner that would offer her a view of Miranda’s office. She stopped, heart thudding, and took in a deep breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

She peered around the corner and….

God.

Miranda was in her chair, swiveled to the side. Her head was back, face to the ceiling, expression lost in ecstasy. All Emily could see of Andy was her shapely legs, heels still on and pointed, her back covered by the tumble of her dark hair, the crown of which moved up and down as she went down on Miranda with enthusiasm.

Emily left.

Over the next couple of days she felt numb.

She sat and watched Andy, who had a flush high in her cheeks and eyes bright every day, and wondered what it was Miranda saw in her.

The thing was - she realized after two weeks had passed and she’d stayed late just enough to observe Miranda and Andy were in fact fucking nightly - the thing was, as much as she idolized her, she _wasn’t_ in love with Miranda. It was more the bitter pill that she just wasn’t the prized girl in the office anymore that hurt.

But Andy, on the other hand….

Emily watched as Andy kept jumping through hoop after hoop for Miranda. Soon she had enough distance to even be impressed, and to notice that the glow didn’t fade from Andy’s face and that she never stopped instinctively turning toward Miranda’s presence whenever she was aware of it. In fact, it only got _worse_.

Andy… Andy just _might_ be in love with Miranda, Emily realized over low-fat frozen yogurt and the Bachelor. None of the girls on the show looked the way Andy looked around Miranda. What the actual fuck.

And there was no one in the office Emily could gossip about this with, not without risking everything. This wasn’t idle cattiness. This was _huge_. Fucking Miranda Priestly, having an affair with her distinctly female employee? Talk about scandal of the century. She floated a couple leading sentences by Nigel, but got nothing. Either he really was in the dark (unlikely) or holding to his own preservatory code of silence (probably).

So Emily watched in frustrated silence as Miranda’s fingers brushed over parts of Andy as she passed or they stood side-by-side, and as Andy emerged, flushed and just disheveled enough to be suspicious, from the bathroom as being gone a long time from her desk. She watched as Andy smiled secretly to herself, and as she gazed into the distance, a dreamy look on her face.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” Emily finally snapped at her one day, grabbing up an armload of files and storming off, ignoring Andy’s shocked and blank face.

 

Three days later Emily entered the darkened interior of Miranda’s townhouse to deliver the Book.

They had gotten careless, was the only way she could rationalize it later. Of course they had, if they were snatching sessions of afternoon delight in the fucking office.

Whatever had led up to it, in the days or minutes before Emily got there didn’t matter, though. Not when she glanced through the door to the living room as she entered, as quietly as she always did and.

It was always a bit of a jolt, seeing a naked person, even after working around models getting in and out of clothes as much as she did. And when that naked person was Andy Sachs, on her hands and knees on the sofa against the wall across from the door, moaning while Miranda, still in her lacy panties and bra, knelt behind her and ate her out….

It took her a few seconds to recover, staring with her mouth hanging open as Andy, flushed and panting, and still _moaning_ , shifted so her shoulders and full breasts were against the slippery sofa cushions, angling her ass and cunt higher and thrusting back against Miranda’s working mouth. Her pale thighs glistened with sweat and thicker juices.

Miranda…. Miranda looked out of _control_ , unlike anything Emily had ever seen before, hands taloned into Andy’s hip and buttcheek, white-gray hair sticking messily to her face. She pulled back to take in gulps of air, eyes hot and wild and devouring as she ran a hand up from Andy’s ass to stroke along the line of her back, then back down again as she dove back in, making Andy cry out in needy sounds that trailed off into whimpers. She began to rock back when Miranda’s hands encouraged her, Miranda’s entire body practically begging Andy to fuck her face.

Emily staggered back from the door, heart thudding hard enough she could feel it throughout her entire body and more turned on than she’d been in… God, _ages_.

She deposited the Book, picked it back up, hesitated, then put it back down and ran as silently as she could to the door.

She barely remembered the trip back home, trembling and impatient to fumble off her clothes, grab her vibrator and shove it into her aching cunt. She turned it on high and moaned, dropping onto her back on her bed and reliving the expressions on Miranda’s face until she came, once, twice.

The next day she walked into the office full of trepidation. Miranda was too intelligent not to have known she had been there, the moment she saw the Book where it hadn’t been before, before she and Andy had….

Miranda breezed in, dumped her stuff on Andy’s desk, and continued to her office without looking at either of them. Emily spent the morning jumping at the slightest noise, the slightest movement from her until she had to bring in Miranda’s lunch with trembling hands.

Miranda didn’t acknowledge her until the plate was in front of her and arranged perfectly.

She looked up, looked Emily dead in the eye, expression distant and hard.

“I don’t have to worry about you, do I, Emily,” she said, not a question.

Emily exhaled, body releasing its tension. Having Miranda’s trust… it was almost as good as an orgasm.

“No, Miranda, never,” she said, and returned to her desk.


End file.
